


This Is Ours

by volti



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: 707 Route Spoilers, Christmas Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Christmas, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Spoilers, please give my sweet boys a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: It wasn't that you owed them for letting you sleep over after the charity fundraiser, or for letting you spend the next day with them. You were welcome whenever you pleased. It was that they deserved Christmas.
In which MC gives the twins the Christmas they should have had a long time ago. [Warning: Spoilers for 707's Route and Secret Ending 01 here, so proceed with caution!]





	

**Author's Note:**

> MERRY CRYMAS. YOU READ THAT RIGHT. I CRANKED THIS OUT IN THREE DAYS AND I'M SUFFERING.
> 
> Also, this is a companion fic to my other MM story, Things That Melt! It's a post-ending fic about Unknown and MC reconciling and building their relationship and bonding through their mental health experiences, so I hope you can give that one lots of love as well.
> 
> And, if you'd like some apropos music, do check out Pentatonix's cover of "Hallelujah." Trust me, I had it on repeat one the whole time, and. I felt things.

Oh, thank God. They were still asleep. Granted, it was still early, and you knew them _both_ to be quite the pair of night owls, but there was something endearing about waking up to Saeyoung out like a light with his arm draped over your waist, and Saeran entirely curled around a pillow on the couch, clutching a blanket in loose fists.

(He must have fallen asleep first. Saeyoung would never let him go to sleep cold.)

You weren't about to wake Saeran up, either, so you might as well tiptoe through the house. Flick on the tree lights and turn the volume to a minimum (Saeyoung had insisted on getting the kind that played Christmas carols, blinking on and off in time to the rhythm). Pull every plate and pan and ingredient out with a surgeon's precision. 

It wasn't that you owed them for letting you sleep over after the annual Christmas Eve charity fundraiser—now a joint effort between the RFA and C&R International—and spend the next day with them. You were welcome whenever you pleased. It was that they deserved Christmas. Something out of your own childhood, or close to it. The crisp, cold air and the light snowfall, the glow of multicolored lights draped over houses and businesses, the tree towering over the square downtown. The wonder of waking up to presents and soft lights and escaping to a feeling that never existed otherwise.

You weren't sure how much of it Saeyoung had immersed himself into—he always seemed to be busy with something, even though he'd long since quit the intelligence agency. But you'd at least insisted on investing in an Advent calendar for the two of them—a miniature Christmas tree, decked out with tiny lights and a star at the top, each drawer under it labeled 1 to 25 and containing a single ornament. At least it made Saeyoung smile when he and his brother took turns adding a new decoration each day.

And you'd managed to take Saeran out on the town quite a few times under the guise of Christmas shopping, partly because Saeyoung had asked you to, and partly because you thought he deserved it. Sometimes he trailed behind you, ducking down behind the scarf wrapped around his face; other times, you could feel his fingers curling tightly in the cuff of your jacket, as if he were afraid to lose you. And every time you turned to look at him, there was always a glint of awe in his eyes, something he seemed to be trying and failing to hide.

You took him to department stores for presents and decorations; you took him walking along the streets at night to see the carolers and the lit pine trees and the children making snowmen in the park. One time you bought him a cup of hot chocolate, and he decided that he didn't mind salted caramel. Usually when you asked him what he thought of it all, he scoffed and jammed his hands in his pockets, cheeks rosy from the old. But the last time you took him, each of you holding a shopping bag, he seemed too distracted to answer. Like the feeling had already taken him.

You considered it a victory. Especially compared to the accidental clatter of pots and pans in the cabinet because you were lost in thought, and the way Saeran sat bolt upright, hair sticking out every which way.

You winced, hoping the jig wasn't entirely up, and whispered, "Sorry, bud. Go back to sleep, okay?"

He blinked once, twice, and rubbed the rest of the sleep from his eyes. "What _time_ is it?"

"Six-thirty," you mumbled, a little sheepish. "Get some more rest. I'm sorry I woke you up."

But Saeran was already getting to his feet and staring around the living room, at the stockings hung up on pegs on the wall, the wrapped gifts laid under the tree, decorated with ornaments and ribbons and twinkling lights. It was worth the look in his eyes. "Is it Christmas?"

A smile crept across your face. "Yeah. It's Christmas."

"Oh." He hung by the doorway now, his gaze drifting over everything you'd taken out on the kitchen counter. All of him seemed to be on high alert, and it made your heart sink to think of why.

"Want to help me make breakfast?" you asked.

"What're you making?"

"Pancakes. My family always made them on Christmas when I was growing up. You can even cut the strawberries, if you want."

Saeran shook his head and opted to watch instead, pulling up a chair. He was so quiet that you might not have remembered he was there if not for the times he cleared his throat. Like he was trying not to make himself seen, or ask for anything.

"You can turn on the sound for the lights if you want," you told him once the batter was mixed together, and tried not to laugh when you added, "Your brother sleeps like a log sometimes."

Saeran didn't say anything, but you couldn't help but notice how he walked a little too quickly to the tree, and kneeled and fiddled with the volume knob a little too carefully, like he was handling a child instead of a remote. A song blossomed to life, and Saeran's brow furrowed on his way back to his seat. "I don't remember what this one's called."

You told him, and the name of every one after that, humming along with the lights. From time to time he mumbled that he already knew what this one was called, or how that one went, and if you listened closely you could hear him trying to string together the melody under his breath, jarred by the sudden change partway through. When you offered to teach him one or two, he shook his head so fast you thought his head might fall off, and shrank into himself. He kept to humming, to listening when a few lyrics slipped from your lips as you got to work on the stove, and then, to hanging off to the side and peering at the pancakes as you stacked and decorated them.

"That's the old guy from the mall," Saeran said, pointing to the pancake decorated with a chocolate chip smile and dollops of whipped cream.

You laughed, and corrected him. " _Santa Claus_."

He snorted, and then stiffened, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter as he stared. "He's not real, though."

"No, bud. He isn't." He'd been lied to enough. He didn't deserve another one, even if he deserved all the hope that lay behind it. "Still, it's better not to spoil it for the kids. No matter how cynical we might be about it." You punctuated the last sentence with a soft smile and a nudge.

"What do _you_ have to be cynical about?" he asked, as if the presence of any negative emotion in your life was inconceivable.

You raised an eyebrow. "Would you like a list? It starts with my parents lying to me about an old man sneaking down a chimney we didn't have to blackmail me into behaving the way they wanted."

Saeran stopped. Then he smiled—the rare kind, the kind you loved to see—and asked for more whipped cream on his pancakes.

\---

You _told_ Saeyoung that the day was going to start early. You told him, and he insisted on gaming nearly all night with Yoosung after the fundraiser ended, and now he was paying for it, grumbling as he sat up at the edge of the bed. If you weren't standing right next to him, he'd probably fall right back asleep. "Christmas isn't s'posed to be like this," he groaned.

"It is now," you told him, sliding into his lap in the hopes that you could hug him the rest of the way awake.

He didn't seem to mind breakfast, even laughed a little at some of the lopsided chocolate chips, and yet you could see how he sat on the edge of the couch, glancing at the wrapped gifts every so often. Anyone else might have thought he was bouncing along to the tinny Christmas carols, or anticipating what lay under all that tissue paper; you couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, he felt like he didn't deserve any of them. If he felt like he should scratch out all the labels with his name and rewrite them with his brother in mind.

In between bites of pancake, you soothed him with a hand on his knee and a gentle squeeze, glancing between him and Saeran. No deprecation today, you promised both of them, and yourself. Nothing short of what you thought the world owed them for all their troubles.

Saeran offered to do the dishes—or, rather, told you that you weren't allowed to do them—and stopped to add the last ornament to the miniature tree on the way. Amid the gentle clatter of silverware and ceramics, you leaned against Saeyoung's side, glancing at your phone for holiday greetings from family and friends. (Zen, true to his nature, had already sent a message, complete with a heart emoticon and selfie; Jaehee had texted you asking if you received said selfie. You wondered if either of them had actually slept last night.) 

"Scale of one to ten?" you murmured. It was a code the two of you had developed when feelings were too much for words, when he needed numbers that weren't zero or one.

Saeyoung shrugged, nearly every inch of him trembling, but managed a smile for you all the same. "A solid four and a half. Maybe a five."

"Better than a three," you told him, fingers sliding in between his, and he seemed to still when he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. He didn't move, not even when Saeran rolled his eyes as he flopped down next to the tree.

"Well, now what?" Saeran asked.

You nodded toward the tree. "Now, presents."

"Those are ours?"

"Of course." You smiled. "You and me and your brother. Yours have your name on it."

Saeran stared like he still didn't believe you. Saeyoung squeezed your hand hard enough that you could feel his nails digging into the spaces between your knuckles.

"Look, look." You slid to the floor, kneeling next to Saeran as you pulled a decorated paper bag from under the lowest bough of the tree. "This one has your name on it. It's from me, see?" You held the bag out to him, patience in your every move. "Go on, you can open it."

Saeran picked at his nails, and it looked like he was shrinking into himself again. With a deep breath, and hands just barely shaking, he took the bag from your grip, picked at the tissue paper until it lay in an unkempt heap around him, and peered inside. "What's this stuff?" he asked as he pulled out a few fluorescent-colored cubes.

You laughed. "It's monkey foam, Saeran. I remembered you liked to watch all those videos of people playing with it, so I thought you might want some, too. What do you think?"

He tossed one of the cubes from hand to hand, jumping a little when the foam gave under his grip. "This is mine," he said, somewhere between a claim and a question.

You spared a glance at Saeyoung, who was leaning forward on the couch and fighting back a smile. "Yeah. That's yours."

He gave the foam another squeeze, bit his lip as it oozed between his fingers. The tissue paper crinkled underneath him as he sat on his knees, and he began to fidget as he parsed through the rest of the boxes and bags. "Hey," he said, perhaps a little more harshly than he'd intended. "Some of these are for you guys, too. It's embarrassing opening this stuff by myself."

Well, at least he was open about that. He was getting better at pinpointing his feelings, speaking them out loud. Saeyoung seemed to notice, too, because he started to laugh and hunted for his own gifts, too.

Soon enough, the living room was a mess of wrappers and tissue paper, empty boxes and unwrapped goods. Saeran was poking through his stocking, the end of a candy cane poking out from between his lips and a shiny band around his finger, a spinner ring to almost match your own. (Saeyoung had praised you with a smile and a nudge once Saeran opened the box—whispered something about how Saeran had been eyeing your ring for a while.) Saeyoung was flipping through a collection of Arabic folk tales, a stuffed kitten nestled against his side.

And you, you were practically drunk off the sight before you. This was what they should have had as kids. It was worth the frostbite, the coaxing, the missing chunk from your bank account, the nights that left you harebrained and stress-crying between the shopping and your job's usual end-of-the-year crunch and the last-minute details for the fundraiser.

You told yourself you weren't going to cry, you made yourself promise that you wouldn't, but you found yourself clearing your throat and rubbing your eyes before either of them could see. No tears, not today. You promised.

Once you composed yourself, you whispered a warning to Saeran that you were going to hug him, and for a flicker of a second you felt him stiffen when your arms wrapped around him. But he softened, a little, and melted into your touch, a little, and instead of saying _thank you,_ he muttered something about how stupid people had to be if they railed on their parents for giving the wrong kind of gift, and _we're all going to die anyway, calm down, Jesus Christ._

(Saeyoung scolded him for "taking the Lord's name in vain, and on his _birthday,_ no less." You were too busy laughing to remind him that it wasn't actually Jesus's birthday.)

Partly out of fairness, and partly because you felt the need to, you sidled up to Saeyoung and hugged him, too. He was mouthing each word of the story he was reading to himself, stumbling over syllables and sometimes going back to correct himself. He managed a sheepish smile and confessed he hadn't read anything in Arabic in a while, pointed to the blankness of the letters and told you they were easier to read with the vowel sounds. You had no idea what he meant by that, but you nodded along anyway.

"How are you feeling?" you asked with your chin on his shoulder and a kiss to his jaw.

Strangely (or maybe appropriately—how far was "identical" supposed to reach?), Saeyoung was the opposite of his brother. He went rigid in your arms for a moment, and never really came down from it, and it betrayed the grin on his lips and the sparkle in his eyes. "I'm happy, babe," he assured you, and he peeked over to make sure Saeran wasn't looking when he pressed a kiss to your mouth.

\---

The thing was, Christmas got awfully boring in those mid-morning hours, the space between unwrapped presents and almost-mandatory group gatherings. You could sleep, or talk, or do a whole lot of nothing.

Saeyoung, still in his pajamas, opted to take a nap once everything had been cleaned and put away; without a word, he laid his head in your lap, put his glasses on the coffee table, and was out before you could ask him what he was doing. Saeran was back to playing with the monkey foam and humming along to the carols, comfortable in the cable-knit turtleneck Saeyoung had gotten him; he didn't jump so much at the abrupt changes in melody now.

"'M sorry," he finally said.

You looked up, fingers still carding through Saeyoung's hair. "For what?"

Saeran squeezed and twisted the foam into shapes you didn't know were possible. "I don't." His lips tightened into a firm, agitated line. "I don't have a job, so. I don't have money." You could feel his muscles tense, even from where you were sitting. "I had to make those stupid things last-minute. Because I couldn't buy anything."

You bit your lip. "You didn't want to borrow any money from your brother...?"

" _No!_ " he snapped, then recoiled with an apology under his breath, and then another. Like he was afraid you might get up and leave with one false word, let alone a string of them. "That's _his_ money. I want my _own_ money."

As if he thought the conversation was moot now, he bowed his head, hair falling into his eyes. It looked like he had so many things he could do with his hands that he couldn't figure out just what to do with them. Like he was teetering on the edge of shutting down. It wasn't uncommon, but you and Saeyoung had spent long nights reading up on what to do when it happened.

"Hey," you ventured to ask. "Hey, Saeran. What kind of job would you want, if you could have one?"

Saeran's eyes seemed to pierce you when they met yours again, as if to ask how you even dared to ask him that—then softened as his body went lax. He'd decided on sticking with the monkey foam. "You take me to the library a lot," he said. His thoughts tended to come out in jumpy, disjointed ways, and he spat them out like he hoped they wouldn't be heard, but you nodded and, without a word, urged him to go on. Of course you remembered all the times you'd gone to the library together. How he craned his head back toward the ceiling like he couldn't believe that so much of anything could exist in one place. How he sometimes clung to your sleeve and snapped at you for leaving him behind if you disappeared behind a bookshelf. How he pored over book after book until the sun went down, and told you in hushed tones about what he'd learned during the train ride back. His mouth had all but fallen open the first time you checked out a book for him to take home.

"I want to be the person who gets to roll around with that cart and put all the books away," he admitted. The foam was stretched, but unmoving, in his hands.

Saeyoung stirred in your lap, rolled over, and stilled again; Saeran flinched and held his breath.

"A page," you prompted him. "They're called pages."

Saeran tested the word on his tongue, decided he liked it, and burrowed into his sweater. He tried to mold the foam back into its original square and gave up halfway through, stuffing it in a plastic jar. (Maybe it just wasn't worth the frustration on Christmas.)

"I think you'd make a good page," you said, with your fingertips skimming the line of Saeyoung's jaw, and then, "and I think it was very kind of you to make gifts for us. Things like that, they come from the heart—"

"You don't have to _lie_ to me to make me feel better."

"I'm not." You squeezed Saeyoung's shoulder, and he sighed in his sleep, and you slumped back against the couch, eyeing the decorated glass jar Saeran had given you. It was filled to the brim with folded paper stars of all colors and patterns, and when you unwrapped it, he'd mumbled a confession that there were handwritten messages in each one. One for every day of next year. God, you had to wonder how long it had taken him. How well he'd hidden it. How drained it must have left him at the end of the day. "I'm not lying to you, I promise."

"Okay," he said. If he hadn't known you as long, as _intimately,_ as he had—if he didn't have reason to believe you—you might have expected him to rave about how you really were lying, of course you were lying, you were just like everyone else, you'd lie and you'd leave him and none of this would mean a _damn_ thing to you—

"Okay," he said again, like another apology for his gut reactions, and then, "I want to believe you."

You bit back a smile. "I want you to believe me, too."

\---

Before you nudged Saeyoung awake again to get ready for guests, Saeran told you, "You asked me a question, so I get to ask you one, too."

"Okay," you said, with a smile. "That's fair."

"Aren't you supposed to be celebrating Christmas with _your_ family? Or whatever?"

Your smile didn't fade, but you could feel all the light behind it disappear. "No," you told him, with all the softness from before, because you didn't want him to feel like he'd said something inappropriate. "Not this year."

"How come?"

You shifted in your seat, eyes dropping to Saeyoung's sleeping face. "Is it okay that I'd rather not talk about it?" And then, with a wink, "I have to keep _some_ mystery, you know."

Saeran rolled his eyes, something you knew he only did when he was trying to hold back a smile, and gave a noncommittal shrug before nodding to his brother. "He's rubbing off on you."

You laughed, softly, and brushed Saeyoung's hair back to kiss his forehead. "I don't mind."

You had the rest of the morning, and a little of the afternoon, to get dressed and fill the house with the smell of an early dinner and baked goods, and this time you didn't have to ask for help; the twins were already on their feet and rummaging through cabinets and refrigerator shelves for whatever you needed. It was supposed to be a team effort, Saeyoung said with his usual grin. You'd already done enough for them. The least they could do was help, especially in their own home. And remind you, repeatedly, that you only needed to make one dish, because for some reason Saeran was interested in all the novelties of a potluck.

Not that he would admit to it. He was far too busy rolling up his sleeves and grappling with the wax paper and the gingerbread man cookie cutter you'd bought a couple of weeks ago. You couldn't help but smile from a distance as he mixed the dough together, until Saeyoung tugged your attention back to him with his hands on your face. Like he needed to know that you really weren't going to overwork yourself. It was your Christmas, too, he said. You'd done enough, he said.

Was it ever really enough? How could it be?

"It just is," Saeyoung said without prompting, tapping his temple with a smile. He'd just laid out a cut of beef and the ingredients for a marinade on the counter, and pushed the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows. If it weren't a special occasion, it'd almost feel like you were living together. Maybe even married. Not that this was any time to think about that.

But it wasn't _terrible_ to think about, either.

By the time the security system on the door whirred to life and began to ask its questions, the food you'd made was either finished or ready to be cooked, and your eyes lit up at the sight of the other RFA members slipping into the apartment at Saeyoung's request, each of them laden with gifts and pots or plastic containers. (A part of you hoped that Jumin's bags were filled with more than just checks or gift cards, but, well. One could only hope.)

"Is this supposed to happen?" Saeran asked, back on high alert. He was eyeing the container of foam on the coffee table nervously, like he felt the need to hide it away as soon as possible. "All these people coming over."

You nodded, and rested a reassuring hand on his back to let him know he was safe. "Christmas is for spending time with the people who love you."

Admittedly, he looked at you like he needed a source, but the sight of Zen gathering you up into a hug and of Jaehee giving him a smile and a polite greeting seemed to do the trick just fine. He settled for giving his ring a few anxious flicks, tagging along behind you or Saeyoung whenever he could. It was almost endearing, and you took every opportunity to include him in your conversations, or at least open up the circle to let him know he was welcome. And it was sweet to see Yoosung make the next move to do the same, asking him about online classes and telling him about college (or, at least, the parts he was awake for).

Sometimes Saeran would make a grab for your hand when he hoped no one else could see it, like he needed to know you were there, that you could ground him. And you did, with a squeeze in return. You had a feeling that Saeyoung did the same when the two of them were together.

Jokingly, Zen asked you if they were giving you any trouble, and with a meek smile you reassured him that you were doing just fine. The glint in Jaehee's eye made you think that she wasn't entirely convinced; you wouldn't have been surprised—it was easy for her to see the stress in you because of how much she already saw it in herself. The way Saeyoung kept glancing at you when you were apart made you wonder if he could see what Jaehee saw, too. But any time he tried to take you aside to ask if you were all right, Zen coughed a little too loudly for anyone's tastes, and Jaehee flushed and looked away.

Jumin, for his part, seemed to think the whole thing was a novelty, the stuff of commoners. He set his gifts aside, took refuge on the couch, and kept to himself unless prompted, or to drop some truth that inevitably threw a wrench in whatever Zen happened to be saying. It was a wonder Saeran didn't try to talk with him. Or, perhaps, it was _every reason_ Saeran didn't try to talk with him.

No one mentioned Jihyun. No one mentioned Rika. No one wanted to.

The only time Saeyoung managed to catch you was in the kitchen, when you were getting ready to cook the rest of the food. He took you by the wrist, gentle enough not to scare you but firm enough to worry you, and your name was a low rumble in his throat when he asked, "Are you okay?"

You stopped, one hand in his and the other wrapped around the handle of a frying pan, and gave him what you hoped was your best smile. "'Course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

His face softened, and so did your name on his tongue. "Please don't overdo it today. Not even for me. Not even for him."

You bit your lip, the pan lowering in your grip. "I'm not overdoing it."

"Promise me," he told you, his fingers lacing with yours, until you didn't know whose hand was shaking. "Please promise me you won't. You do enough for me. Us. Please."

You swallowed hard, gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm not," you told him. "I won't. Just give me a few minutes, okay?"

Saeyoung seemed to be satisfied with that, and gave your knuckles a kiss before sauntering back to the living room to strike up a conversation with Yoosung.

Deep breaths, you told yourself. Deep breaths. Everything was okay. The money was okay. It went to a good place. It went to good people. You were surrounded by friends—family, a second family—and you were okay, and you were safe, and you weren't tired. You weren't upset. You were okay, you were _okay,_ you—

The click of the stove brought you back to yourself, poised to grill the first slice of meat, and this time it was Saeran at your side, coaxing the tongs from your grip and nudging you back from the range.

"Go," he said. "I'll do it."

You began to insist that you could handle it, but Saeran only stared at you, pointed beyond you to the gathering in the living room. "I said, go. It's your turn."

You weren't exactly sure what _your turn_ consisted of, exactly, but you didn't mind it if it meant staying nestled in Saeyoung's lap while he cracked jokes, and listening to the newest soliloquy Zen had memorized, and seeing Jaehee—poor, overworked Jaehee—sit at full attention with her eyes all but glittering. (Later, she'd try to convince you that she was simply in awe of your Christmas decorations, and the care you'd put into decorating your stockings, but you both knew she wasn't fooling anyone.)

The way Saeyoung's arms tightened around your waist wasn't lost on you, though. Neither was the look Saeran gave you when he finally came out with a pan full of cooked bulgogi and a head of lettuce, when the time came to eat. Or the way Yoosung insisted that you try a little more of the kimchi he'd brought, because his mother made it, and she was family too. Or the way Jaehee cut you a slice of Christmas cake that was a little larger than the rest. Or the way Zen's fingers not-so-subtly brushed against the back of your hand when he handed a wrapped gift to you. You looked to Jumin with questions in your eyes, but he only gave you a nonchalant shrug and a ginger pat on your shoulder.

"Is it not a day for you to rest, too?" he said, amid yet another mess of wrapping paper, and you looked, confused and defeated, into the earnest eyes of everyone around you.

Even Saeran. Especially Saeran.

Saeyoung's laugh hummed against your back, and he broke the silence with an apology for your lack of words. "It's been a long month," he explained with a hug from behind, the most affection he could give you in front of the others without complaint or despair.

Sure. It was a long month. But it was a long month for _everyone_ , and—

And they were staring back.

And they weren't having any of it.

\---

Yoosung and Zen threw out the wrapping paper. Jaehee and Saeran divided up the leftovers for everyone to take home. Jumin left early on some claim that he couldn't stay away from work for too long, and apparently "work" was code for "his cat," or so Jaehee claimed under her breath once the door had closed behind him.

The others spent a few hours longer, watching the specials on TV, or listening to the radio, or speaking in hushed tones. Saeyoung refused to let you go, in spite of the way Zen wrinkled his nose (or, perhaps, _to_ spite him), and grounded you with his fingers trailing up and down your arm. Jaehee's fleeting glances in Zen's direction didn't go unnoticed, and Saeran and Yoosung were huddled up in some corner, probably talking about Internet cafés or the miseries of Christmas past; Saeran seemed to be listening intently, with his legs tucked in and his chin resting on his knees.

It was nice, seeing him like that—gradual.

"He should play with us sometime," Saeyoung said, "but I think he wants to take a break from computers for a while. Just use them for school."

You didn't need to ask why.

The sun had long since gone down when Jaehee decided that they had overstayed their welcome, and she tugged Yoosung and Zen to attention for goodbyes. You couldn't help but smile at the fact that they seemed to leave with more bags than they came with, and more so at how Zen offered to see Jaehee home, despite all her insistence that she'd be all right. Yoosung left Saeran with a pat on the shoulder and the offer to speak more through the RFA's messenger, and Saeran only nodded and looked away, toes curling in his socks. More gradual. More pleasant.

It was oddly silent once the door closed behind them all, but for the lights still humming out their carols. Saeyoung hadn't let go of you. Saeran shifted uncomfortably before standing up and beginning to put the leftovers away.

"I want to go to the city again," he announced, and looked pointedly at you and Saeyoung.

In phases, you got to your feet, ready to accompany him, and Saeran gritted his teeth.

"No," he added, and nodded toward his brother. "You, too."

You weren't sure what was more brilliant—the sparkle of the tinsel on the Christmas tree, or the way Saeyoung's eyes lit up.

The three of you bundled up quietly and left the house hand-in-hand. Saeran insisted you walk between them—"Because it's dark, and there's probably weirdos out," he muttered—but you weren't complaining. There was something gentle about the way they squeezed your hands in turns, comfort cutting through the fabric of your gloves and breath coming out in soft puffs when they spoke. They pointed out lit-up buildings, listened for the ringing of soft bells and the carolers strolling the cold streets, and side-stepped couples and families clinging to one another.

Saeyoung seemed to be caught between awe and a strange sense of familiarity. Like it was new to him in person, but lived for years in his mind's eye. Maybe he'd managed to see the real thing once or twice, but never let himself get caught up in it. Never let the feeling take him. Saeran seemed to notice, too, and when you reached the tree in the city square, he was smiling behind his scarf, nudging Saeyoung to look up.

Saeyoung didn't speak for a while. He only squeezed your hand, like he needed you to ground him, too. Then he said, "I've seen this stuff. But I haven't really _seen_ it."

Saeran's brow bunched together in the middle. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I mean." He wasn't looking at you or Saeran; he seemed to be looking for the star at the very top. "I mean, I saw all this when I went shopping. Not a whole lot, since I drove." He smiled, faintly, perhaps at the thought of his cars tucked away. "But I only walked here once."

"What did you do?" you asked.

Saeyoung laughed, under his breath, and gave a sheepish shrug. "Gave a bag of toys to the cathedral. To pass it forward, you know what I mean? If anyone deserves Christmas, it's children, so." He jammed his free hand in his pocket, and when he spoke again, he sounded distant, like he really had made it to space, if only for a while. "It kinda felt like a pilgrimage, walking there."

"Do they know they're from you?"

Saeyoung only smiled and shook his head. "They're from Santa."

You bit back the urge to tell him that he deserved Christmas, too, and linked your arm with his instead. 

Saeran didn't speak. He only stared up.

Saeyoung treated the three of you to cups of hot chocolate as you went, and a Santa hat that he fit onto Saeran's head. Saeran wrinkled his nose, but he didn't complain, and he scoffed and looked away when you told him it suited him. He never took it off, not even when Saeyoung turned to drop a few bills in a nearby donation canister and admire a couple of movie posters. But he used the distraction to ask you under his breath, "D'you think he's happy?" He fumbled with his half-full cup, eyes flitting between you and Saeyoung. "D'you think it's everything he dreamed of?"

You gave him a warm smile and a long hug, fighting against the cold, and whispered back, "I think he's getting there."

Saeran sighed, but you could feel his fingers curling into the back of your jacket. "Better than nothing, I guess." And then, just before he pressed his face into your shoulder, "Thanks." He seemed to force the words out, like it took everything in him to say them, and he only clung to you more tightly, careful not to spill his drink.

You told him all your _you're welcome_ s, and you didn't let him go for anything until Saeyoung returned. Even then, he didn't want to let you go; you wouldn't have minded staying like that for a little longer. You wouldn't have minded him trusting you like that for a little longer.

"We should go home," Saeyoung said, with one last glance around the city. "It's getting late."

So you turned on your heels and doubled back, arms linked with Saeyoung's while you finished your drinks, and tossed a look back to Saeran every so often. He was biting his lip and looking around, as if he didn't want to wake up the next morning and see it all over, and he kept to himself the rest of the walk home, like he decided that he'd taken enough of your time. He seemed to think highly of taking turns these days.

He stumbled toward his bedroom as soon as you got home, shooting one last glare your way as he told you and Saeyoung to keep it _quiet_ tonight, and silence fell on you once he closed himself away.

Saeyoung only smiled, and said, "I say we follow his lead."

\---

"I lied," you told Saeyoung halfway through changing. The privacy of his room did next to nothing when he was sitting right in the middle of the bed, and you really hadn't meant to say it—not just then, at least—but you'd been open books and open bodies before. It wasn't particularly devastating.

That didn't mean your heart didn't sink to see Saeyoung's face fall just that little bit. "About what?" he asked, cautiously.

"I..." You swallowed, picking at the hem of your top. "I have another present for you. I've been keeping it a secret all day, you know? But you have to close your eyes. And turn off the lights."

Saeyoung blinked, and a grin spread across his face. "We're supposed to keep it _quiet,_ remember—?"

"Not like _that_!" Your face had gone from pale to pink to scarlet, and he narrowly missed the pillow you chucked at his head. "It's an _actual_ gift!"

The grin never left his face—"But you _are_ a gift"—but he complied, flicking the lights off and covering his face with his hands. Once or twice you caught him peeking through his fingers with the flashlight from your phone, and he only laughed and promised, for sure this time, that he'd keep his word. When he opened his eyes again, his mouth fell open, eyes drifting toward the ceiling and the walls, locked on the floating pinpricks of light that decorated them. "What _is_ this?" he breathed.

You couldn't help but smile from across the room. "It's a star projector. I thought you might like it."

Without a word, he patted the empty space beside him, and scooped you into his arm when you fell into bed. He didn't say anything beyond the occasional squeeze or kiss he planted atop your head; he only spoke with his body, and his eyes were glued to the stars. It would have been enough thanks for you if the silence and the guilt weren't so deafening, no matter how much his touch tried to alleviate it.

"Scale of one to ten?" he finally asked, a low murmur into your hair. He still hadn't let go of you.

You fumbled. "Do you want the honest answer, or the one I should give you?"

"Shouldn't they be the same?"

He had you there. "Solid five," you told him after a deep breath.

Saeyoung pulled you a little closer, as if he'd known all along (and really, he probably _had_ ). "You didn't tell Saeran, did you?" The walls were near-soundproof, but he still spoke like he was afraid anyone else could hear him.

"Tell him what?" you asked, following his gaze.

Saeyoung shifted beside you, the bed creaking in protest. "That you spent the money you'd been saving to see your family on Christmas for us."

Your heart sank, fingers twisting in the front of Saeyoung's shirt. "I didn't tell him."

"I don't plan to, you know," he said. "That's for you to come clean about."

"I know."

"I know you know." He went quiet again, for a moment, and then added, "Great minds think alike."

You managed a weak smile. "They do, huh?"

"I mean that I have an extra present for you, too." And before you could protest or ask what it even was, he leaned back to rummage through his nightstand table, pulling out an envelope as you sat up. "For you," he said with the slightest air of gallantry and another kiss to your forehead.

Carefully, you peeled back the seal, and a couple of folded documents and a packet wrapped in tissue paper fell into your lap. He pressed on when you looked up at him, and without a word you unfolded the documents and glanced at the letterhead. It was formal, a splash of white text against midnight blue, and it was all you needed to see before the pieces fit together in your mind.

"You bought me a star."

Saeyoung nodded, all soft smiles, and gently tore through the tissue paper, where a tiny star pendant hung from a golden chain. "They're hard to see without a telescope, so now you can see it all the time—hey..."

You weren't sure when you started crying; it might have been when you saw the necklace, or as Saeyoung was taking it out of the packaging, but now he was pulling you into a hug, rubbing your back in soothing circles. "I know," he said. "I know you've been doing too much for us. You _always_ do too much for us. All of us. For me, and Saeran, and the fundraiser. You push, and you don't think anyone notices, and you just... you just want someone to do something for you too, right...? You just want to be good to people, and you want them to be good to you in return." He clutched at the back of your shirt, rocking you back and forth, and you shook in his hold. "You don't have to hide that here."

"You've been hiding, too," you managed to say, and you hated the way your voice cracked. "How you spent all that time by yourself, and the way you opened your presents so slowly, all that stuff you donated." You could feel the urge to curl into yourself rising from the pit of your stomach, tightening into a ball you wished you could control. "You feel like he deserves Christmas and you don't."

"Then let's both stop," he said, and nudged you back to brush the hair from your eyes. And then he was fumbling with the pendant again, fastening it around your neck until it settled, in all its glory, just over the collar of your top. "Let's stop hiding, right now."

Saeyoung kissed you once, twice, with a hand cradling your cheek and all his usual familiarity, and with none of the intent of going anywhere. He thumbed the tears from your eyes, and if it weren't for the star projector, you might not have noticed that he was crying, too. "Do we get to do this every year?" he asked, like it was his turn to shy away from what he wanted. Or maybe to ask for it. Like he really had the opportunity to.

You nodded. "Every year."

"This is ours," he said. That same claim. That same question.

Another nod. "You and me and your brother."

He kissed you again, a tear landing almost perfectly on the pendant when he pulled back. Maybe he thought he was supposed to end this with something cheesy, like an exchange of _Merry Christmas_ between you, but he didn't say anything. He only stroked your knuckles under fake stars, and whispered affirmations of all kinds to you, and hummed whatever carols he could remember. He told you you deserved this, all of this, and made sure that, for once, you fell asleep first.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/omnistruck) and a [Tumblr](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com) if you want to follow for more suffering and shenanigans!
> 
> Also, I really enjoy kudos and reading your comments, so please leave either (or both!) if you liked this! Thank you for reading <333


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